


you know just when to jump off

by pixiepower



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Coworkers - Freeform, Feelings Realization, Flirting, M/M, Theme Park AU, disaster gay chwe hansol, good boys goofing off at work, idiots to lovers, lee chan is hot, ‘but i thought we were just friends’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 04:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower
Summary: Hansol is told he’ll be working the outdoor snack carts, and the proverbial light shines upon Hansol from the heavens in the form of Lee Chan.•Hansol and Chan work at a theme park, and there’s no snack they sell as good as the oblivious flirting that ensues. Summer is forever, y’all.





	you know just when to jump off

**Author's Note:**

> title from “my rollercoaster” by kimya dawson

When Hansol hires on, he knows he wants to be in attractions.

Not even just to say he runs a ride, you know? Something about the way the team members seem to have so much fun playing games in their downtime, inventing secret handshakes at the entrance of their rides, giving kids stickers and buttons celebrating their first time meeting the height requirement, and the way they all really, genuinely seem to be friends, definitely appeals to him. 

Seungkwan seems to have so much fun at work, always bounding home with — as impossible as it seems — more energy than he goes in with. So merchandise would be fine, even! Hansol worked at the bookstore his first couple years of college. A little more retail would be totally fine, and it would be especially fun working in the same line of business as his best friend.

Or character hosting like Seokmin, who encouraged Hansol to interview at the park in the first place because he’s so good with kids.

So he tries not to be disappointed when the hiring manager places him in food and beverage. Working in a theme park this large means that “you get what you get and you don’t get upset,” and Hansol is nothing if not flexible. At least, that’s what he listed as one of his best professional strengths in the interview.

But he is placed in foods. Where the table service team members can be cliquey and chain-smoke cigarettes and complain about guests’ wine and spirits selections (“Someone honest to God asked me if we had diet sparkling water. I wanted to put in my notice right then and there.”). And everyone in quick service foods looks a little like the light has drained out of them, another piece of their soul evaporating with each hamburger they slide across the counter window, glassy-eyed and body creaking, fraught with the endless pain of repetitive motion injury.

So, not terribly promising.

Until Hansol is told he’ll be working the outdoor snack carts, and the proverbial light shines upon Hansol from the heavens in the form of Lee Chan.

•

It starts simply: a bubble gun, left atop the trash can next to the popcorn cart.

Hansol is done with training and finds himself alone at the stand, somehow, impossibly, suddenly, entrusted to be alone with a cash till and a giant kettle of popcorn, and it’s eight in the morning and no one fucking wants popcorn for breakfast.

But you know what people do want for breakfast? Churros. 

That makes _ sense _to Hansol; a churro is just sugary cinnamony dough fried to perfection, and a warm breakfast pastry hits all those buttons. So, he gets that. He does. Why he’s even out here selling popcorn as soon as the park opens is beyond him, though. That seems like a bad business move, but that’s above his pay grade.

Hansol takes a tentative step away from his cart and peers across the walkway, through the throng of people speed-walking to get to the rollercoaster before the line gets too long, and sees a boy with a big, sleepy smile selling churros to an eager line of people bedecked in theme park garb and hip packs fashionably slung over their shoulder. He busts through the line in no time, each person leaving the stand with a churro and a smile, and Hansol thinks maybe this whole job has gone over his head a little. Maybe he’s not cut out for this. Not the way Churro Cart Boy is.

But the bubble gun is there, in his periphery. It calls to him.

Did it get lost already, five minutes after park opening, one of the thousand people who suddenly have become gold-medalists in the four-hundred-meter dash to the big rides at the back of the park having tossed it aside, collateral damage in the war against queues in the summertime? Or was it left over from yesterday, and some child has undoubtedly screamed their head off with the unending grief of their first brush with real loss?

Hansol takes a few more quick steps, reaching out a hand and snatching the bubble gun off the top of the trash can and returning to his post a moment later, standing this time in front of the cart instead of behind the till. 

He estimates with a glance at his smartwatch that he probably has another hour and a half until people start to trail by for a souvenir bucket and their midmorning snack, so he switches on the bubble gun, and it whirs to life in his hand.

It’s one of the prettiest days in recent memory, Hansol notices, already warm, but not unseasonably — one of those nice days when you wake up and know that it’s going to feel like summertime today. That, despite the salty, savory scent of popcorn in the morning, the day is going to be beautiful.

He watches the trajectory of the stream of bubbles, the early-bird crowd powering through them like they’re not even there, as they float across the walkway. The way the wind brushes over Hansol’s arms where his sleeves are rolled up just below the elbow tickles a little. The first tingle of warmth on his skin is imprinted in his mind when he tracks a persistent bubble with his eyes, gasping in shock when a finger follows its path and pops it before it can float too close to the churro oven.

Hansol’s face must drip with devastation, because Churro Boy’s own face flickers between panicked apology and delighted schadenfreude. Churro Boy decides that he’s thrilled, and he cups his hands around his mouth. 

“It’s your own fault for getting emotionally attached to a bubble!”

Hansol’s jaw stays hung open for a second too long, and Churro Boy leans against the side of the cart and cuts off a smirk with a press of his tongue to the inside of his cheek, hair peeking out from underneath his cap (little work cap instead of hairnet, excellent call. Hansol will have to do that tomorrow).

“How could you say that? It had a family!” Hansol yells, half a laugh crinkling up at the edges of his smile despite his best efforts to stifle it.

Churro Boy raises an eyebrow and reaches a hand out, silently popping two more bubbles without cutting their eye contact, and Hansol breaks first, curling a little into himself with the force of his laugh.

When Hansol straightens back up, he taps on his nametag with the backs of two fingers on his free hand. The gentle clack of his short nails against the acrylic pin is faint under his shout. “I’m Hansol!”

“Chan!” Churro Boy yells back, and holds out his hands, palms up as if to catch something, opening and closing his fingers, grabby.

And he doesn’t know why, but Hansol looks left, and looks right, and, when the coast is clear, nods resolutely at Chan, biting his lip for focus and throwing the bubble gun across the walkway in one smooth motion. It sails the five meters over the pavement, swift and plastic, bubbles still streaming out of it because Hansol didn’t think to turn it off before throwing it, and what if it hits a guest, and oh, shit, Hansol’s probably gonna be so fired, and —

Chan catches it deftly and holds it over his head triumphantly, bubbles floating down around him like confetti. Hansol feels the sun spread over his shoulders.

•

The carts lead this morning is Hoseok, who is probably the coolest guy Hansol has ever met. He’s been at the park since he was in school but never seems to tire of it all, face brightening whenever someone clocks in. He makes them all feel valued for coming in to work and special despite the fact that their team is a hundred strong, and he always backs them up when someone is screaming bloody murder at them because their pretzel cheese was “too hot” and “burned their mouth” and “they’re a season ticketholder and this is the worst day of their life.”

So, Hoseok fucking rocks.

He is especially Hansol’s favorite person ever, starting right now, today, this minute, because he says, “Hansol, Chan,” unbuttoning his coat and absentmindedly tying his half-apron around his waist with deft hands, fingers tying a bow without looking. It’s hot, of course, but that’s not the point.

“What’s up, Hoseok-ssi?” Chan says, sliding his timecard through the clock box and pushing Hansol toward it. 

Hansol swipes his ID and grumbles at the shove. He knocks a hip against Chan’s, ostensibly making room for them to hear the assignments Hoseok has planned. They stay pressed together, elbowing each other a little just to fill the space, energy spilling out of them by the millisecond.

“We have too many people today, but the managers said not to send anyone home. We thought people would call off but everybody showed up. Would you be able to do me a favor and tour all the stands in the park and pick up all the lost and found? I don’t think it’s been done in almost a week so there should be a decent amount. You can take a pushcart with you if that makes it easier.”

_ Both of us? Together? _Hansol wants to ask, but he nods and keeps his mouth shut. Until:

“Both of us? Together?” Chan asks, and Hansol’s neck cracks with the force of it when his head whips to the side to look at Chan. The little creatures inside of his chest swirl around each other with eagerness.

“Yes,” Hoseok grins, eyes crinkling fondly, like he knows something Hansol and Chan don’t. “You’re welcome.”

“Lit!” Hansol shouts, and kicks a foot against Chan’s excitedly. Chan kicks him back and grins.

“Thank you, Hoseok-ssi!”

Hoseok laughs and hangs up his coat. “Come back with the lost and found verification slip before your lunch.”

“We will!”

It’s like the spirit of a five-year-old passes through him, possessing him briefly. Hansol kind of wants to skip, and the urge to reach for Chan’s hand flickers through him. He’s not usually in the giddy-at-work kind of mood, but today there’s the smell of summer in the air, and the weather is perfect and Hansol gets to run around the park with Chan for eight hours, and it’s going to be a good day.

“Do you want to start at the back and work our way forward?” Chan asks, voice straining a little as he tugs the pushcart free from its parking spot in the stockroom.

“That works! Since lost and found is on the other side by the entrance.” Hansol uses one foot to nudge a box of napkin dispensers out of the way, clearing a path for Chan to push the little shopping cart out the door.

The cart rattles embarrassingly as they make their way through the park, the metal bars clanging noisily even on the smooth sidewalk of the employee path. Hansol agreed to push it on the way there and figures Chan can push on the way back. It’s only fair. But he’s regretting it a little when a manager in their done-up business-casual look eyes them oddly, and bows a little in apology as they clatter past.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would die for the popcorn smell that lingers on everything I own when I go home every day, but it’s nice to do something different for a change,” Chan says, loud over the cart noise, stretching his arms up high. His shirt comes untucked with the motion, and he groan-sighs down at his exposed hip before working to tuck it back in. Hansol blinks to refocus under the sun.

“Definitely. I just had my four-month check-in meeting with the managers and I had no idea how much time had flown by already. I feel like I am now one with the snacks. Every day the same, but with a fun new scent to follow me home.”

Chan laughs, and tugs on his beltloops to ensure his shirt is in the whole way.

“You look good,” Hansol says, and Chan looks up, startled. Pulling a face, Hansol corrects, “Your shirt. It’s good.”

“Right,” Chan says, smile melting over his face like the sticky floor next to the ice cream stand as they round the corner to it, the first cart in the back corner of the park. “I know what you mean, though,” he adds, pressing the button on the receipt printer to make an inventory list of their collections. “Like, I feel like people come and go, but we’re here. I think I might wake up one day and have been here fifty years already.”

“Does that scare you?”

Shrugging, Chan says, “It’s not the worst. But I always thought I’d do something else.”

“Like what?”

“I took a break from school to earn money, but if I was going to stay on at the park, I thought maybe I could transfer to entertainment if I practiced hard enough.”

“My roommate Seokmin wants to be a singer in the park! Auditions are coming up, are you going to go out for a singing role too?”

Chan shakes his head. “I like singing and think I’m good enough at it, but I dance, mainly.”

Hansol looks Chan up and down, trying to imagine him in one of the myriad shows they have daily, and comes to the conclusion that Chan looks ever the picture of a competent performer. The way he carries himself, confident and aware, the way even their silly uniform fits on his shoulders and waist. A mental image of Chan in the daytime parade flickers through Hansol’s head, bright smile and suspenders costume like the friendly boys in entertainment, and Hansol feels a tingle in the pit of his stomach. The whole picture just clicks.

“I know you can do it,” Hansol says, grabbing at Chan’s hand with sincerity.

Ears pink, Chan says into their ever-growing inventory list, “Thanks.”

Hansol drifts closer to Chan on their way between stalls, using one of the carrot plushies they come upon in the bin behind the sideshow games turkey leg cart to bop his ass when he bends over to pick up more lost and found.

Chan whirls around, ears red. “Cheap shot!”

Hansol doesn’t put up a fight when Chan wrests the plush out of his hands to hit him back, laughing and letting him go at it. “That’s why I took it! I never claimed to be expensive.”

“Yeah, I saw your Instagram, I know how you dress,” Chan smirks, and Hansol sputters.

“You did? Did you follow me? I didn’t see! I’ll follow you back!”

Coy, Chan shrugs and lets his smile crinkle up his eyes, but before he says anything more, a child with a churro wanders up to them as they approach the front of the park.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” she asks plainly, politely but with no honorifics in that endearing way only kids under six can do.

Hansol drops to one knee to chat with her, holding up a pair of sunglasses they found at the last cart. “We’re collecting lost things,” he says, and feels Chan take a step back to look around for a parent or guardian.

“Why?” she asks, reaching for the sunglasses with a hand sandy with cinnamon sugar.

Placing the sunglasses back in the cart, Hansol rummages around in his apron for a sticker. “Because if I lost something, I would be very sad and I would want someone to bring it back to me. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes trained on the sunglasses in the pushcart. “Can I have that?”

Hansol grins when his fingers find what he was looking for in his pocket. “I have something even better. What’s your name? I’m Hansol,” he says, pointing to his nametag.

“I’m Minhee,” she says, and takes a gargantuan bite of churro. Hansol tries not to laugh as she garbles, “What do you have?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Minhee-ssi. Before I give this to you, please promise me if you find something that is lost, you will give it someone with a nametag like me, so it can find its way home.”

Minhee’s eyes are big under her giant bow headband, and she nods seriously, holding out her hand. “I promise, Hansol-ssi.”

“Thank you so much,” Hansol says, and holds out a sticker with glitter on it, one of the shiny ones from when he first started working at the park that they don’t order anymore. Minhee gasps and clutches it happily, whirling around and bumping suddenly into Chan’s legs, where he has appeared alongside a man whose panicked look is relaxing some at the way Minhee is yelling delightedly.

His own panic starts to dissipate, tension melting out of his shoulders as Minhee’s father ruffles her hair and thanks Chan and Hansol. 

“Hyung?” Chan’s voice sounds just shy of tentative but his face reads kind, and he watches with bright eyes as Minhee waves the sticker excitedly at her dad when they walk in the opposite direction.

“What’s up?”

“I like you,” Chan says.

Hansol laughs with relief. “I’m so glad to hear that, dude, seriously. It is so good to know I’m not as garbage a coworker as I feel like I am sometimes,” he says honestly, taking his cap off to run one hand through his hair.

Mouth closed, Chan watches the movement with bright eyes, but is quiet for the next minute, and Hansol wonders if his hair looks as bad as he thinks it does. The last stretch of travel passes in comfortable silence.

They push the cart through the back entrance of the lost and found, and the blog-post-readiest, most Instagrammable team member Hansol has ever seen greets them with an easy grin. Hansol rams the cart into the doorframe by accident, clotheslining himself on the handrail and knocking the wind straight out of his stomach.

Maybe it’s just Hansol’s brain shorting out at the sight of golden skin and broad shoulders in the fancy tours uniform vest, but he takes an extra second to breathe again. Not a beat later, Chan mutters under his breath, “Good God. These tour guide motherfuckers must be paid premium to be this hot,” so he can’t be too alone in it.

“We have lost and found for you!” Hansol manages, and — _ look at the nametag, Hansol, we’ve got them for a reason _ — Mingyu beams impossibly brighter.

“That’s what I’m here for! What have you got?”

Chan clears his throat and reads off his running list for Mingyu to look over and copy down on the log sheet. “One black velcro wallet, no ID, six thousand won in three notes, and a season passport inside. One gold hoop earring, one pair of high-end sunglasses, five pairs of cheap sunglasses. One blue blanket that looks _ very _ run over, one green plaid blanket that looks fine. Three carrot plush, four misting fans, and one yellow baby Croc with those little push charm things in, and the charms are Minions.”

This last one makes Mingyu gasp, and he holds the tiny shoe in both his hands cradled together, gazing down at it with shimmery eyes.

“Oh,” he breathes, and completely disregards the Minions, which is somehow endearing and bemusing at once.

“No, no, no, not another baby shoe,” another tour guide groans as he enters, sweeping his silvery-blonde hair out of his eyes with a sigh. “Mingyu,” he starts, tone soft but warning.

Mingyu looks up at the other tour guide._ Jeonghan, _his nametag reads, once Hansol gathers the faculties to tear his eyes away from his face to look at it. 

“But, hyung,” Mingyu all but whines, and Hansol and Chan make eye contact, twin looks of curiosity and almost-laughter crawling up their faces. Hansol has to look away, so he busies himself folding the cleaner baby blanket into a neat little square, lest he embarrass himself in front of all these boys.

Jeonghan plucks the shoe out of Mingyu’s hand and tosses it with feeling into a bin labeled _ Single Shoes (Youth). _“No ‘but hyung.’ This one had Minions on it and you were still close to tears. I could almost hear you breathing, ‘It’s so small,’ from the next room. No more baby shoes at work, Mingyu. Save it for Minghao.”

“But Chan and Hansol brought it for us,” Mingyu says, sweeping an arm toward them, and Hansol feels Chan, at his side, straighten a little with surprise at being named out of the blue.

“Wow, you’re gonna throw us under the bus like that?” Hansol laughs.

“Yeah, and you’re not going to mention all the other special treasures we brought you? They’re _ gifts,” _Chan says, recovered enough to lean over the lost and found counter and bat his eyelashes at Jeonghan. Hansol feels his eyes turn to moons. Fucking powerful.

Jeonghan rests a hand on the nape of Mingyu’s neck and fixes Chan and Hansol with a raised eyebrow and a smile. “Sweet little crows, dropping off these tiny shiny things for us. Here’s your reward.” He peels the carbon copy inventory sheets apart and smacks a dramatic fake kiss onto the front of it where his and Mingyu’s signatures verify dual custody for the cash.

Chan laughs and takes the sheet, pressing it over his heart. “I’ll cherish it always,” he says.

“Your chariot,” Hansol offers, and Chan stands on the back rail of the cart between Hansol’s arms, leaning forward, back arched a little for balance. Hansol glances down to where his arms bracket Chan’s broad back, and back up to Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. He feels a little lost, but warm in it, like open sand dunes surrounding him on all sides.

“Bye!” Mingyu says loudly, waving kindly as they take their leave.

Chan takes a deep breath, but all he says afterward is, “I’m so excited for lunch.” 

His shoulderblade brushes Hansol’s nametag. The empty cart wobbled when Chan turned to speak, and Hansol positions his elbows closer to keep their center of gravity closer together. Chan tilts his head back, his shoulders all but resting on Hansol’s chest now, and his eyes close, warm sun soaking into his face after the cool minutes spent inside.

Hansol looks down at the shadows cast on Chan’s cheeks by his eyelashes. “Me too.”

•

“Why does your nametag say Esther?”

“Esther is my God-given name, hyung,” Chan says blithely, giving Hansol big eyes of disbelief, twinkling under the fluorescent lights of the cart despite the darkness of the evening around them. “And it’s supremely rude of you to ask.”

Hansol snorts and sets out another stack of waxie paper. They’re down to only two more sheets, and it’s rush time before the fireworks show, so he has to set them up for success. But— “Wait. Are you implying God named you?”

Chan rolls a churro in the cinnamon sugar with dramatic flair, tossing the tongs up and catching them easily. “Yeah, who else would have?”

“You know what, I’ll give you this one, Chan-ah.”

“It’s because I’m godly and divine, right?”

“It absolutely is,” Hansol agrees, grinning broadly when Chan winks and sticks out his tongue.

“Knew it.”

In the distance, Seokmin waves his glow stick for directing guest flow wildly to say hello, and Hansol grins and waves both hands back. It’s always kind of nice when Seokmin gets guest control shifts instead of his usual character host ones, because it means there’s a greater chance of Hansol seeing his housemate during work.

Seokmin mouths something Hansol can’t make out, so he tilts his head exaggeratedly, leaning over the counter while Chan rings up a guest. Seokmin uses both hands to gesture to one side, and Hansol points at Chan quizzically, to which Seokmin nods. 

_ What? _Hansol mouths in reply, and has to smile sheepishly and apologetically at a guest trying to get napkins from below him and eyeing him weirdly.

After a stilted attempt to mouth something else, Seokmin gives up and mimes, gesticulating wildly and fanning himself. Hansol looks around the stall for a second and spies it — the mini water bottles for the team members to drink, in a case underneath where Chan is standing.

“Chan,” Hansol says under his breath, smiling broadly at their current guest as Chan hands them their churro.

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna take some water to my roommate over there doing Control, is that okay?”

Chan smiles back up at Hansol and puts the tongs down to shoot him finger guns. “I think I can manage.”

“You really are godly and divine, you know?” Hansol beams, and laughs when Chan preens under the dim light of the cart.

“I do know! But it’s nice to hear it.”

Tugging a water bottle free from the case, Hansol looks both ways and crosses when the stream of guests slows. Seokmin is crouched on one knee, guiding a pair of young girls to where their parents wave from a few feet away. They giggle and skip away happily when he sneaks both of them stickers, giving them a conspiratorial wink. As Seokmin straightens, Hansol holds out the water bottle like an engagement ring.

“You’re too charming for your own good, you know.”

“They’re my sticker hunter deputies now,” Seokmin says in explanation, taking the water bottle gratefully. “What’s this for?”

“You said you were thirsty?”

Seokmin stares at it, small in his large hand, and suddenly breaks away into a laugh. “No! I was saying you should be.”

“I’m not following.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to reply, but Hansol startles at the blare of the parkwide announcement, the first trumpeted note declaring the nighttime spectacular to be starting _ in just a few minutes _booming through his stomach. 

“That always makes me jump! Scares the daylights out of me.”

“Hyung, you’ve worked here for four years,” Hansol laughs.

“It still surprises me! It’s loud!” Seokmin defends himself with a smile, smacking Hansol in the arm with his glow wand.

Hansol shrugs and offers Seokmin a lopsided grin in return. “If you say so.”

“Oh, but you’re clearly a pro already. Six months in, the announcements don’t surprise you anymore, and it’s all downhill from here. Just cynicism and texting under the till for you, and before you know it you’ve retired and have free entry for life. But at what cost, Hansol-ah? At what cost?” Seokmin sniffs exaggeratedly, clutching his heart dramatically and staggering forward, half for effect and half to let a mother pass with her stroller into the viewing area.

Hansol shakes his head, glancing back toward his cart. He should get back soon, otherwise Chan will be alone during the fireworks, when they can get a head start on their cleaning. “No, I really like it here!”

Seokmin raises an eyebrow, his smile turning wry as he opens his mouth to respond. Before Seokmin can get a word out, though, the opening chord for the show strikes across the park and Hansol spooks with a jump, blinking in surprise. Seokmin laughs at him, but it’s silent under the sweeping music and the high-pitched squeal of the first few fireworks launching into the sky.

It’s… _ so _ loud. This is the closest Hansol has ever been to the central viewing area, with the launch site on the roof of the team buildings behind them. Usually Hansol’s low seniority means he has to close out the carts at the back of the park, which always takes the longest to walk back to count out his till since it’s furthest away, and they’re super boring. 

But tonight it’s like everything has converged to give him one of his favorite workdays so far. Hansol glances back over at Chan, who is wiping down the guest-facing area of the cart, and takes a step to return to work. He doesn’t make it another step before Seokmin grabs his arm.

“You can’t get back that way right now, it’s viewing only for that area,” Seokmin shouts into his ear between crackles of pyro.

“What? No!” Hansol says back, eyes panicked. He’s gonna get in so much trouble for leaving his post for the whole show, shit.

When he looks back at the cart, though, Chan is frowning at him, eyes big and shiny and fake-teary, and it makes Hansol laugh a little, but it also stokes the tiny ember of guilt in the pit of his stomach. It must show on his face, because Chan drops the act and shakes his head reassuringly.

Chan mouths something Hansol can’t hear under the music and booming explosions, and he tilts his head instead of trying to shout back over the twenty-people-deep throng between them. As if in response, though, when the next part of the song picks up Chan starts to dance along a little, one corner of his mouth quirked up with concentration.

The pop song blaring through the park flows through him, and the steps are small, but Chan is smooth on his feet and the sight warms through Hansol’s chest. Chan holds out a hand, faceup, as though asking Hansol to dance too, and Seokmin tugs on his arm excitedly.

“Do it!” he screams, waving his glow wand along to the beat, and Hansol shakes his head, laughing.

It’s just so loud. But the soundtrack is great, though. And Chan’s hand is still extended, forty feet away.

So Hansol holds out his hand, palm down, and bows as the pop song fades into a big swell of music for the finale, and Chan bows back, smiling with his tongue between his teeth.

Chan’s hands float in front of him, one on an imaginary waist and one to the side, and he sways side to side, feet deftly one-two-three-ing in a private waltz. Hansol floats his hands where he thinks a partner would be, and rests one on an imaginary shoulder and one in hand, mirroring Chan’s steps like a guide. He sees the little footprints in his mind’s eye, warm and light on the floor underfoot, and follows, stepping forward and back in time.

The fireworks illuminate Chan’s face every few seconds, rainbows of colors falling like stars over his warm skin. His face beams brightly when he catches Hansol’s eye, but with a gentle smile, glowing softly like candlelight. Every so often Chan reels his hands back in, tight to his body like pulling someone close, and closes his eyes, the predictable strings of the soundtrack plucking through him, and Hansol finds himself wondering if he does this every night.

There’s a sustained choral note, grandiose and sweeping, to underscore the deafening roar of what’s probably nine hundred fireworks going off for the grand finale, and Chan’s eyes meet Hansol’s again. Hansol keeps one hand held out and indicates a spin with the other, tossing a loose grin across the throng when Chan laughs, face illuminated pink from the pyrotechnics in the sky. Chan seems to wait a beat, but spins elegantly on one foot with the next count, and half-covers his grinning face with one hand when the last sparkle of pyro floats down into the fallout area.

Seokmin shouts from somewhere to Hansol’s side, “Cross now while you have a chance, Prince Charming, before people start to dump out into the walkway!”

“Thanks!”

Hansol’s not really a ‘fireworks person.’ They’re loud and not that exciting if you have a poor vantage point, but as he looks both ways between all the people still clapping at the finale, and jogs across the walking path back to the churro cart, he thinks that sometimes they really are beautiful.

•

Seungkwan always curses more when he comes into the park. There must be some sort of smug-fond combo that pushes adrenaline through him to swear (gently, of course, it’s a family park,) in front of Hansol when he knows he can’t respond in kind. Hansol understands; it’s kind of freeing to be in your place of work, off the clock, doing normal things anyone else is allowed to do.

But sometimes the things Seungkwan says make no sense.

“If these snack carts had cameras you’d be totally fucked,” Seungkwan says, sidling up to Hansol’s cart in his terrible character-print shirt and ballcap pulled low over his eyes. His voice sounds jealous, probably because the merchandise locations he works are surveillance-heavy, but his smirk is too knowing for that to be all.

“You’re just mad that I can’t give out discounts,” Hansol says with a laugh, handing him the container of popcorn when Seungkwan swipes his credit card.

“No, I just know that if you were going to flirt this aggressively on-camera, some manager would definitely have pulled you in for a conversation by now.” Seungkwan tosses a popcorn kernel into the air and catches it with his mouth.

Hansol rolls his eyes and pre-scoops another carton so he doesn’t have to abandon his conversation to serve the next guest if one walks up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kwannie.”

“Bullshit,” Seungkwan laughs, using an open hand to gesture to the turkey leg cart, diagonal to where Hansol’s serving popcorn. He says mockingly, “‘Oh, Chan, I sent you this paper airplane made of receipt tape because I _ don’t _want to make out with you, however did you know?’”

Hansol flushes, embarrassment tingling down his arms. “Shut up, dude! It’s hard to be at a cart alone for eight hours, of course we’re going to kill time.”

Seungkwan looks like he wants to shove Hansol’s head into the popcorn vat.

“Do _ you _ even know that you like him?” Seungkwan asks, voice almost condescendingly patient. 

Hansol scoops popcorn into a souvenir bucket, beaming as he hands it to a kid who practically buries their face in the warm popcorn, but when Hansol looks back up Seungkwan is still waiting, lips pursed, that look on his face that says, _ Well? _

Sighing, Hansol looks over at Chan across the wide walkway, where he’s standing next to his cart playing air drums with pens along with the area music, hair bouncing and face full of exaggerated emotion. When the song ends he’s breathing hard from the effort, which is hilarious, but he looks over and catches Hansol’s eye and shoots him a wink. Then. 

And then. 

Then there’s that same feeling that swirls through Hansol’s chest, the one he’s been chalking up to mutual amusement and just having a good time together, and Hansol suddenly feels a little dizzy.

“Oh, my God,” Hansol mutters, and Seungkwan’s face drops.

“Ddollie, you’re joking,” he says, and his voice is a little incredulous, a little frantic. “I was kidding!”

Hansol suddenly can’t look at the turkey leg cart anymore, and busies himself restringing the display buckets.

“I know you’re a terrible actor, and I know this because I am an excellent one, so your reaction is worrying the hell out of me,” Seungkwan says, setting his popcorn down on top of the trash can like a tabletop. He splays both hands out on the little counter area in front of Hansol and stretches his neck out like a pigeon trying to catch his eye, but Hansol feels a little unsteady.

Every moment rewinds through his brain all at once, and it’s like a smash cut of every smile and touch and wink and flirty joke, and Hansol swallows just to feel the movement of his throat and remember he inhabits a body.

“I watched your eyes take a journey. I watched your _ heart _take a journey. I sat here and watched for a hundred and seventeen minutes as your face changed and now your face is all stress-goopy,” hisses Seungkwan.

“Well, what am I supposed to say, Seungkwan? ‘You got me?’ What do I do now?” Hansol says through his teeth, tense.

He half can’t bring himself to look back over at Chan now and half can’t tear his eyes away from the turkey leg cart. The turkey leg cart, where Chan is using the aforementioned receipt-paper airplane to do maneuvers over the heads of children, who are giggling and grabbing up at it, but he kindly shakes his head and tucks it in his shirt pocket, covering it with one gentle hand and distributing stickers instead, and all of that is an awful lot for Hansol to handle right now.

Seungkwan watches, too, but more blatantly, posture loose and hips kicked back against the trash can. His sunglasses are perched at the end of his nose, and he understands now that time when Seokmin said Seungkwan looked like a hot archeologist on vacation. “Have you ever seen each other outside of work?” Seungkwan asks.

“No,” Hansol says. His voice does _ not _ sound glum. _ Maybe _ wary. Like, at most. He is very calm and not at all panicked at the thought of having to confront this and internalize all of this for the next three hours of his shift all alone at the popcorn cart.

“You will now,” Seungkwan says.

Hansol takes a deep breath. “Seungkwan,” he starts, and Seungkwan holds up an arm. All Hansol sees is the back of his hand as Seungkwan approaches the turkey leg stall and chats with Chan for a bit, and tries not to think about the way his stomach swoops when Chan glances his way.

Seungkwan would do a lot of things Hansol wouldn’t, just as a general rule. But he would never bare something Hansol wasn’t ready to confess. Or, at least, Hansol assumes he wouldn’t. 

So he’s left wondering what they said when Seungkwan sends him a salute and a wink of his own and walks off with his popcorn, just leaving Chan waving at Hansol, the usual dazzling smile spread across his face.

•

It’s hot. It’s _ so hot. _The hottest day of the summer, according to the weather app, actively defying the promise of autumn and Halloween park decor around the corner. With probably nine thousand percent humidity weighing down the air, Hansol kind of wants to die. His cap is doing little to absorb the sheer volume of sweat dripping down his scalp from proximity to the churro heater. Churro rotisserie? Whatever.

It’s high noon and everything in Hansol’s sight is wavy with heat. The kind of day where people start to see mirages in the distance, at least in movies. Hansol doesn’t think mirages are real, but Seokmin’s coworker Joshua told him once that oases were real, and it shook him to the very core, so he supposes anything is possible.

The parkwide heat advisory is in effect, so jackets and vests are coming off the team members at the haunted house next door, black pants doing nothing but baking the greeters, their already melancholy faces absolutely miserable. Hansol rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, finally, but it offers little reprieve.

But, as if a mirage, this... vision walks into Hansol’s periphery, backlit by the scorching sun, edges of the silhouette all fuzzy, and when he shields his eyes with one hand to greet what he thinks is a guest, his mouth goes bone-dry, like that time he and Seokmin tried the cinnamon challenge. 

Drier than that time he did the cinnamon challenge, because the fucking cinnamon challenge was not Lee Chan running his hand through his hair, a little tousled with sweat-dryness, the sleeves of his t-shirt rolled up high enough to reveal for the first time toned, strong, really, really _ hot _ biceps. The cinnamon challenge dried out Hansol’s mouth, sure, but the cinnamon challenge’s face didn’t break open into a smile more refreshing than a cannonball into a pool on the hottest day of the summer, and the cinnamon challenge’s arms didn’t look like _ this _ in the woven, mint green, park-issued uniform shirt, that’s for goddamn sure.

Hansol thinks maybe mirages are real. And that maybe he’s going to pass out.

It’s like when you get a cut accidentally and don’t realize it. Your day goes on, your brain doesn’t register it, you live your life, until you spy it. When you do, though, the moment you see the wound, you feel _ everything. _

This doesn’t hurt, but Hansol feels _ everything. _And he has no idea how to act.

“Honey, I’m home,” Chan singsongs, half-skipping toward the churro cart from where he was chatting with someone at the haunted house a few steps away.

“I’ve been slaving away over this hot oven all day and you think you can just waltz in here and bat your eyelashes and everything will be fine? No appreciation,” Hansol jokes, and feels his toes tingle when Chan laughs, indeed batting his eyelashes prettily under his glasses. The glasses are… a lot to take in.

“Hansol!” Chan beams. “I’m so happy to see you!”

Hansol laughs, trying to keep his tone light despite the way his stomach turns over at the statement. “How are you alive right now? You came in of your own volition? In this weather? And you’re _ not _ getting paid?”

Chan shrugs, grinning with his tongue between his teeth, and unzips the bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out some cash. “Nope. _ And _ I’m going to buy a churro. Spend my paycheck at my place of employ and everything. I’m a wild man, hyung.”

Holding out his hand to receive the money, Hansol watches in what feels like slow-motion as Chan cradles Hansol’s outstretched hand in one of his own and carefully places the money into Hansol’s palm with the other. His hands are dry but soft, firm but gentle, and Hansol has to actively think about the sweat dripping down the back of his collar to avoid his train of thought careening down the track in that direction.

Is this just what it’s going to be like now? Playing and replaying the most mundane things because Hansol’s lizard brain decided he needed to develop a very serious crush on his favorite coworker and best work friend?

The last few weeks have been torturous. Hellish, even, Hansol thinks, as he sticks his head further than normal into the warmer to retrieve a churro for Chan. They don’t always work the same shifts, which makes things easier, but when they do, it’s a struggle for Hansol to keep it together. The joking and the teasing come easy, the camaraderie he and Chan have developed over the last few months comfortable like second nature. 

But it’s all the little things, like when the sun hits Chan’s face a certain way and it’s like he’s glowing sunshine from the inside out, that make it hard for Hansol to not just walk out from behind the snack stall and ask a balloon vendor to borrow their balloons so he can float away into the sky, never to return.

When Hansol returns to the till with the churro, Chan is lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his forehead, and Hansol almost brains himself on the countertop at the sight. Why? Why?

“Thank you, hyung,” Chan says sincerely, and takes an eager bite. His feet shuffle in a little happy dance as he chews, and Hansol’s chest aches a little. “What time are you off?”

“Seven,” Hansol says, glancing at his watch. “Are you off today?”

“Yeah. Just came to see some friends and my housemates. One of them is a trainer over there at the House, so I wanted to see how he was doing in this weather.” Chan reaches forward and tugs at Hansol’s vest, undoing one of the buttons by accident. “You know you can take this off, right? Don’t suffer needlessly.”

“I keep forgetting,” Hansol says sheepishly, clumsily undoing the other button and taking his vest off, unclipping and refastening his nametag to his shirt. It’s upside down. He fixes it.

Chan frowns. “What would you do without me? I weep to think of the state of you when I’m not around,” he says with a half-smile.

How fucking embarrassing. Hansol flushes. “I am very capable!”

“Mm, I know. You’re just fun to tease,” Chan says warmly, putting his baseball cap back on and taking a ridiculously slow bite of churro. Hansol’s body feels like it’s on fire, and he kind of has to get out of here.

It’s a relief when only a minute later Seokyoung brings him his break slip, her ponytails bouncing with each step. “Break time,” she says, sliding her till into the drawer and pulling Hansol’s out for him. “Oh, hi, Chan!”

“Hey, Seokyoung,” Chan says, still looking at Hansol expectantly.

“I guess I’ll see you, then,” Hansol says, clipping the cover onto his till and making to leave through the team member exit behind the cart. 

Chan raises his eyebrows with surprise. “Oh, okay,” he says, voice going up a little at the end. It’s in Hansol’s imagination that he sounds disappointed. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll see you later.”

•

The rest of his shift goes by in a blur, and Hansol is practically on autopilot as he counts out his cash and heads back to the parking lot. He doesn’t even put his headphones on, which is probably a mistake, because he’s almost to his car when he hears, clear as day—

“Hansol-hyung! I’m really sorry, I just… Is something wrong? You’ve been acting so weird these past couple of weeks. Is everything okay?”

Hansol freezes, hand clutching his car key, at the sound of Chan’s voice as he jogs up behind him in the employee lot a meter away from his car. So close. So close to freedom. To not having to confront this right now. Or maybe, possibly, ever.

“I’m sorry, man,” Hansol says, turning around slowly. 

Chan’s brow is furrowed with concern under his clear acrylic glasses and Hansol feels his heart turn over. How can he say, _ I have a huge crush on you and didn’t realize it and now I feel like a dumb idiot because I don’t know how to act around you anymore? _

“Is everything okay?” Chan asks again, and the lopsided way one corner of his mouth pulls back is so cute. “Can I help you with anything? Pick up your shifts? I can talk to the bujang-nim and get them to approve it.”

He’s so good. Hansol can’t stand it.

“I don’t know how to be normal around you anymore,” Hansol says, and winces a little at the way he sounds so childish.

“What do you mean?” Chan tilts his head and cocks a hip, and Hansol can’t let himself get distracted like this. The sun is going down and everything is gold and he’s in his sweatsoaked work uniform and Chan isn’t, he’s still in his street clothes, his shirt is still basically sleeveless, looks so good, fuck, there’s a lot going on.

Hansol walks the rest of the way toward his car for something to lean on, rests his back against the driver’s side door. He has to know.

“Have we been flirting?” Hansol hears himself saying. It’s almost a fucking out of body experience, and he grimaces.

“Oh, yeah,” Chan says nonchalantly. Easily. Somehow. “But you knew that. Well, at least, I’ve been flirting with you since you hired in.”

Since he _ hired in? _ Hansol blinks a few times. “Excuse the fuck out of me?”

Chan laughs kindly, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and shrugs. “It was fun. You’re so cute, and besides, it doesn’t matter how I feel, because you’re straight, so…”

“I’m not- I’m not _ straight,” _ Hansol stammers, and he suddenly feels a little lightheaded. It’s unbelievable how not-straight he is. Clearly. “Wait.”

Cheeks pinkened a little, Chan stares down at Hansol’s hands where he still clutches his car keys. 

The lag in Hansol’s brain ends for a single blissful moment, and he processes everything. A little breathless, he says, “What do you mean, how you feel?”

“I already told you I like you!” Chan says with an embarrassed laugh, shrugging his shoulders. His white shirt almost touches his burning-red ears with the lift of it. “Like, a bunch of times. And you didn’t do anything, just deflected and kept calling me ‘bro,’ so I thought you just… didn’t like me back. It was still fun to flirt with you, and you’re my friend, so I thought…”

“Oh, my God,” Hansol says, and lets his head fall back against the rubber piping on his car’s window with a quiet _ thunk. So dumb! So dumb! _

“Honestly, I should have just asked, I mean, you know what they say about assuming, I just didn’t want to lose you, so when Seungkwan gave me your number I kept opening up and closing out of a new message and just never sent it, you know?” Chan winces and rubs at his arm sheepishly.

It’s a lot for Hansol to take in. “Seungkwan gave you my number?” he manages.

Chan laughs nervously. “Yeah, like. Three weeks ago. He said you wanted me to have it but thought it would be awkward since we’ve known each other for so long already. And that checked out, because I was too nervous to give you mine, too, so…”

“You shouldn’t have been,” Hansol says. Hansol takes a deep breath, and when he looks up, Chan is so beautiful, so he says it. “I think I’ve had a crush on you since… well, probably since I hired in. Too. Actually. Uh. Maybe. Whatever is the least embarrassing way to say I like you, too, like, a whole fucking lot, pretend I said that.”

“I thought you just wanted to be friends,” Chan says, restraint tinting his voice like the rear window on Hansol’s car.

“I thought you were just being friendly the whole time!” Hansol tries not to yell. “But I have been out of my mind hot for you for weeks, if not way longer.”

Oh, fuck. Way too revealing. Well, it’s too late now. Hansol is one second away from lying down so the team member pickup shuttle can run him over. 

But Chan’s eyebrows raise with excitement, his grin gets wider and his eyelids drop a little, looking up at Hansol through his eyelashes, long, gaze weighted with something.

“Well, that’s even better, then.”

One of Chan’s arms winds around Hansol’s waist, hand sliding back to rest in his back pocket against where his back slopes into his ass, and Hansol’s knees feel a little weak. Chan looks so gorgeous close up, soft and cute in his acrylic glasses and his baseball cap, and Hansol’s nerves spike into that tingly moment, that almost-moment.

He wants to ruin it a little. He’s never been known for his patience.

“I think if you don’t kiss me right now I might die,” Hansol says, and Chan laughs again, bold and beautiful and perfect.

“We can’t have that,” Chan says, and leans the rest of the way up.

Hansol isn’t really a romantic, not the way Seungkwan is, but the feeling of Chan pressing him up against his car, kissing him like they’ve been waiting months (and Hansol thinks maybe they could have been) makes him want to melt a little. He thinks he hears the strings of the fireworks finale, but that could just be the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

Chan’s free arm pins him to the door, caging him in strong as their lips press together again and again, and he’d be lying if he says something doesn’t ignite in the pit of his stomach about it. He’s _ strong _ in a lean dancer’s way, and Hansol can’t help the way his bones feel like jelly at all the mental images flickering through his brain, ones he previously tried to shove into the pretzel-cheese vat bubbling up to the surface because he’s _ allowed _to think them now. He lets out a soft little noise when Chan palms his hip, gripping hard. Hansol’s only human.

He closes his eyes, lets Chan tease his mouth open a little, feels Chan’s tongue run over his lower lip and swipe inside against his.

“You taste like churro,” Hansol mumbles against his mouth, and Chan breaks away to laugh against Hansol’s collar. The sound echoes softly up to his ear and it makes Hansol grin.

“Maybe because I had a churro when you sold it to me, dummy,” Chan says, hitting his palm against Hansol’s bicep flirtatiously but pressing a kiss onto his cheek sincerely. He pulls away, neck all flushed, but then seems to think twice. He leans in and kisses Hansol on the lips again, long and languid, before murmuring coquettishly, “Can I have a ride home, handsome?”

“Oh, my God. Ulterior motive! I knew it!” Hansol says, blushing a little when he sees a car pull up and put its indicator on to take his spot, feeling both a little vulnerable and hot under the collar at the thought of being caught making out in the employee parking lot.

But Chan winks, and Hansol finds that he can’t stop smiling anyway as he ducks and steps around Chan’s body to unlock the passenger door.

“Mm, I knew chivalry wasn’t dead,” Chan sighs happily, and Hansol rolls his eyes a little, but closes the door for Chan after he gets in.

He’s resting his elbows on the center console when Hansol slides into the driver’s seat, looking up at him expectantly. Hansol turns the car on and tries to stifle another grin at the catlike smile spreading across Chan’s face, pulling the car into drive.

“How do you feel about road head?”

Wheel hand poised over the horn, Hansol almost loses it. He pulls his hand back a centimeter or two and grips the wheel tight around the edge instead. “I’m breaking up with you,” he chokes out, and Chan’s head is thrown back, laughter ringing through the car as Hansol backs out of their parking spot.

Hansol feels that warm, swirly emotion spread through his chest and stomach, gooey cinnamon-roll insides, and knows this is going to be good.

**Author's Note:**

> is it obvious i work at a theme park?  
idol cameos: hoseok (j-hope) from bts, seokyoung from gwsn
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/eightpaint/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


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